


One More Game

by MostlyCharmless



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Go (game), Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22934227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlyCharmless/pseuds/MostlyCharmless
Summary: ‘By all rights, it should have been wrong. She had come out of nowhere and blindsided him — thrown a wrench into the well-oiled machine that was his neat, orderly little world. And yet...’Marta teaches Blanc how to play Go.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 52
Kudos: 182





	1. Jōseki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened? I was working on other stories. I had grand designs. _Knives Out_ happened, that's what. And I just had to write about these two characters. Enjoy.

" _Jōsekis_ are not fixed, definitive things. They indicate the moments when everything can change." — Pierre Audouard

If there was one thing that Benoit Blanc, renowned gentleman sleuth, had never been able to abide, it was untidiness. Both his apparel and his home were fastidiously arranged and kept perfectly spotless at all times. Similarly, he insisted on his cases being equally orderly. Everything, down to the tiniest detail, had to be put in its respective place and filed neatly away in the warehouse of cases that existed in his mind. Loose ends could not be tolerated.

Which was why his continued association with Marta Cabrera puzzled him so deeply.

It was unlike Blanc to remain in contact with the people connected with past cases. As a problem requiring his services, once resolved, was tucked inside its own little box, so likewise were the people involved stowed carefully away, not to be taken out unless as a point of reference. Members of the official force were an obvious exception to this rule. As a private investigator, it only made sense to stay on good terms with the local authorities.

Marta, however... Now that was more difficult to explain.

When Blanc had attended the murder trial of Hugh Ransom Drysdale in order to give evidence, he truly thought that it would be the last time he ever saw the young woman. The notion had saddened him more than he would have expected; but after all, with the case closed and Ransom behind bars, there was nothing keeping him here in this little town. Marta had her hands full with Harlan Thrombey's assets, including his publishing company, but she seemed to be managing everything with her characteristic competence. She would be all right. Hell, she would be more than all right. She was a fighter.

And so, with just a tinge of regret, Blanc had bade her farewell in that noisy courtroom, trying to ignore the tears in her eyes as she thanked him for believing in her. As if he could do otherwise.

And that had been the end of it. Or so he had assumed. Then, three months later, he had been in attendance at a charity auction at the Boston Public Library, when across the crowd of upper-crusters milling about the vast space of Bates Hall, he spotted a familiar face. The figure to which it was attached, however, was almost unrecognizable.

Marta Cabrera had exchanged her childish hairstyle for glossy, shoulder-length waves, her oversized sweaters and silly cropped pants for a stunning black, sequined halter gown with lace panels. Her makeup was dark and mysterious, her lips a deep red. She looked, in a word, fierce. A woman not to be trifled with.

This was decidedly unexpected.

After recovering from the shock of seeing her in such an incongruous setting, Blanc regained his usual aplomb and sauntered through the crowd to stand unobtrusively at her side. "Well, if it isn't Marta Cabrera," he said in his unhurried drawl. "What, pray tell, brings you to Bean-Town?"

Marta's face lit up at the sight of him. "Detective Blanc," she exclaimed, foregoing all sense of decorum and folding him in a tight hug. "It's so good to see you."

Caught off guard, he stiffened for a moment before returning her embrace. Not many people hugged him. "Likewise," he replied. "Although I must admit, I scarcely recognized you. If I may be permitted to say so, you look as pretty as a picture."

"Thanks," she said, pulling back to look at him properly. "So do you."

"Well, I've got to compensate somehow," joked Blanc, smoothing down the front of his tuxedo vest, "seeing as I'm not much of a detective."

A laugh burst from Marta's lips, and he smiled, pleased he was able to draw it from her. It was a sound he had heard far too infrequently.

"As delighted as I am to see you," he went on, "I'm somewhat surprised, as well. I wouldn't have thought this sort of thing to be your cup of tea."

At this she blew out an exasperated breath. "You're right about that," she said. "You don't know how hard it is to make polite small talk with so many people without wanting to throw up."

Blanc chuckled, relieved to find that despite her appearance, Marta Cabrera really had not changed all that much.

"But to answer your question," she continued, "I'm auctioning off a few of Harlan's first editions. He gave me instructions saying that I could sell any of his possessions I chose, as long as the profits went to a good cause." She shrugged. "I'd say a literacy program for the children of immigrants is a pretty good cause, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed," murmured Blanc. He had almost forgotten what a kind, selfless person she was. It was not something he came across often in his line of work.

"What about you?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts. "Why are you here? Not that I'm not happy to see you, too," she added quickly, "but this doesn't seem like your kind of thing, either."

"No, it's definitely not within my usual _métier_ ," he agreed, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. "However, I was asked to make an appearance by no less an esteemed personage than the mayor himself." His tone took on a wry, self-deprecating quality. "Seems my celebrity status was a draw for many in attendance."

"Am I keeping you from schmoozing, Detective?" asked Marta, lifting a teasing eyebrow. It occurred to Blanc in that moment that she was equally poised to break hearts as well as skulls.

"My dear Marta," he said dryly, "if by schmoozing, you mean enduring the inane jibber-jabber of vapid socialites, you may detain me for as long as your heart desires."

She laughed again. "I can't believe I'm saying this," she admitted, "considering how we first met, but... I missed you, Blanc."

Something inside him was oddly warmed by her sincere pleasure at their reunion. And it was sincere. If it wasn't, she would have vomited on his shoes already.

"And I you, _chérie_ ," he found himself replying.

He offered to get her a champagne, and she politely declined. Belatedly, he remembered that she had been drinking champagne on the night of Harlan Thrombey's death, and it was likely an unpleasant reminder. He asked her if she would prefer something else.

"A gin and tonic would be nice," she said.

"Of course. I won't be but a moment."

He turned to make his way toward the bar, but was met with sudden resistance at his back. "Oh, no, you don't," she told him, grabbing the tail of his jacket. "I'm going with you. Now that I've found a friendly face, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

Blanc smiled.

They found a quiet part of the hall and chatted over their drinks for some time, partially hidden from prying eyes behind a marble bust of Sir Walter Scott. Blanc told Marta about a few of his latest cases, and she filled him in on her own affairs, which mostly consisted of managing the late Harlan Thrombey's interests and dealing with his fractious relatives. For that, he thought she deserved a medal.

Her own little family, he was dismayed to hear, had gone their separate ways. Her sister Alicia, who went by Alice, had moved in with her boyfriend, and their mother had gone back to Cuba.

"Do you mean to say," he blurted in disbelief, "that after all that rigmarole you put me through to keep her from being deported, your mother isn't even in the country?"

"Trust me, I'm aware that it's crazy," Marta commiserated. "She got her green card, thank goodness. But the rest of our family is still in Cuba, and they are very poor. My mother moved here because she wanted a better life. With the money from Harlan's inheritance, we can make their lives better, as well. So that's what she's doing."

Blanc was not surprised by this act of generosity, but he was nonetheless moved by it. It was not hard to see where Marta got her kind heart.

"So you're rattling around that big old house all by your lonesome?" he asked, unable to conceal his disapproval.

"I'm not lonesome," Marta protested. "I kept a few of the staff on, just to help me take care of the place. Besides, I don't feel alone. With all of Harlan's things around — all of his books, and his dolls and figurines — it's almost like he's still there with me."

It was Blanc's firm opinion that Harlan's dolls and figurines were as unsettling as all get-out, but he restrained himself from saying so. If they were a source of comfort to Marta, he wasn't about to argue. Still, he hated the thought of her being alone out there in the country. Even with the security, it didn't seem safe.

"Couldn't Alice and her boyfriend live there with you?" he pressed. "There's more than enough room for all of you."

Marta shook her head. "I offered, but they like living in town. And they both think the house is creepy."

Blanc made a noncommittal noise and took a sip of his bourbon. He was too polite to say anything else.

"Do you want to get out of here?" she suddenly asked.

He nearly choked on his drink. For an alarming moment, he thought Marta was suggesting a romantic assignation. Involuntarily, his mind's eye began to envision what that might look like, and to his mingled horror and shame, it was not altogether unappealing.

"What did you have in mind?" he inquired cautiously.

She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. "I don't know. We could go for a walk. Although I doubt I could get very far in these shoes."

Blanc looked down at her spiked heels and was inclined to agree.

"Why don't we go back to your place?" she suggested, unknowingly causing his heart to hammer against his ribcage. "You live here in Boston now, don't you?"

"Yyyyeeesss." The word oozed out of him against his will like molasses. It was true that he had sold his high rise condo in Manhattan and traded it for a cozy little brick townhouse in Beacon Hill. He wasn't sure how she knew that, and was even less sure why it filled him with an odd feeling akin to satisfaction. This evening was not going at all like he had anticipated, and he didn't know how to take control of it.

Unaware of his internal conflict, Marta's expression brightened as an idea occurred to her. "I could teach you to play Go!"

He blinked, nonplussed. "Go?" he echoed weakly.

She nodded. "I haven't found anyone to play with since Harlan died," she said. "My mom doesn't like board games. Alice tried to learn, which was nice of her, but she's terrible." She quirked a smile. "But I have a feeling you would be good at it. What do you say?"

Blanc allowed himself to relax. He should have known that Marta was not proposing anything salacious. She was simply not that kind of woman. Relieved, he let out a slow breath.

"As tempting an offer as that is," he said carefully, "there is one slight problem with that plan. I do not own a Go board."

But Marta had taken her phone out of her little clutch and was typing away furiously. "I'm Googling game stores in the area now."

And that was how Benoit Blanc found himself seated on the sofa in his neat but cozy living room, listening as Marta Cabrera explained to him the rules of one of the oldest games in the world. Between them on the coffee table lay a Go board, which Marta had insisted on purchasing for him. Blanc tried to focus on her pleasant, accented voice, but it wasn't easy. The whole evening had taken on a surreal quality, and he was still having difficulty adjusting to it.

This sort of thing was Simply Not Done. He never associated with murder suspects from his previous cases, and he certainly never invited them into his home and allowed them to occupy his furniture. And yet here was Marta, ensconced in his favorite burgundy leather armchair, looking familiar and unfamiliar in her glamorous gown, while she expounded on the subject of _jōseki_ — the term for an established sequence of moves performed by both players at the beginning of the game. There were many different variations in _jōseki_ , she said, but the result was always an even exchange, equally advantageous for both sides.

By all rights, it should have been wrong. She had come out of nowhere and blindsided him — thrown a wrench into the well-oiled machine that was his neat, orderly little world. And yet...

"At first, the game seems simple," she was saying. "That's what I thought when Harlan taught me. But it's not just about capturing your opponent's stones. It's more than that. It's a game of creating, not destroying."

"What do you mean?" asked Blanc, making a concerted effort to pay attention.

"Most board games start with the pieces already in place, like chess or backgammon. But Go starts with an empty board. As you play, you work to create strong structures. You give them life. It's hard to explain." She paused, organizing her thoughts. "Yes, the object is to have more territory than your opponent at the end. But you can play an entire game of Go without capturing a single stone."

Her lips curved in a faint smile. "That's why Harlan would always lose. When he played, he played to beat me. But I played for the patterns."

"Patterns?" Blanc repeated, his interest genuinely piqued.

Marta nodded, brushing her dark hair out of her face. "The stones form patterns, in the same way that letters form words and sentences. The more you play, the more intricate they become. I don't know why he never saw... how beautiful they can be."

Slowly, her smile faded, and she let out a sigh. "This is weird, isn't it?" she muttered.

He felt his eyebrows climb upward. "I beg your pardon?"

She held up a hand. "It's okay. You don't have to say anything. It's weird for me to be here." To his surprise, she rose to her feet, talking more to herself than to him. "God, we don't even know each other, and I just invited myself to your house. Who does that? I'm so sorry, Detective. I should just go. Keep the Go board."

Blanc watched as she picked up her little beaded clutch and prepared to leave. That, he realized, was the last thing he wanted her to do. He didn't know how he was going to stop her, but he knew he had to try.

"Marta," he began, getting to his feet.

Heedless, the young woman continued to ramble, her nerves on full display. "It's just, I don't have many friends, and I have even fewer since I got all this money, and when I saw you tonight, I couldn't..."

She trailed off, looking lost.

Blanc reached out and placed a hand on her arm. "Marta," he said quietly. "You don't have to go."

She stared up at him with those big hazel eyes, utterly devoid of pretense or dissemblance. Suddenly he knew what he was going to say. The truth.

"The fact of the matter is, I don't have too many close associates myself," he admitted ruefully. "And not just because I'm a retiring sort of individual. When one looks at everything through the stark, unforgiving lens of the private investigator, it becomes difficult to form attachments. Other people begin to fall into one of two categories: victims and suspects. But the world is not so black and white. You taught me that."

Marta frowned, a little crease forming between her eyebrows. "How did I...?"

He smiled. "By defying categorization. You were neither and both all at once."

Slowly, she returned his smile.

"What I am attempting to say in my usual roundabout way," he went on in a more serious tone, "is that I am glad to have met you again, Marta. And I would be honored if you would stay and teach me this beautiful game."

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then, with a barely perceptible nod, she resumed her seat in his armchair. Slowly releasing the breath he'd been holding, he sat down across from her.

As she began to take the black and white stones from their velvet pouches and set up a practice game, Blanc recalled what she had said about _jōseki_. How the object was to create a pattern in which the result was an equal, balanced exchange. Mutually beneficial for both sides.

Marta's unexpected reappearance in his life was a disruption, without question. But it was already turning out to be a welcome one. If he did this right — if he strictly adhered to the rules he had resolved to set for himself — then this odd friendship between the middle-aged Southern detective and the young nurse-turned-heiress could be good for the both of them.

Blanc thought of her alone in Thrombey's dark, cheerless mansion, surrounded by grim reminders of the dead. He observed the smile that now rested on her lips as she sat in his living room, a smile he had seen only a handful of times. And he made up his mind. He could allow this disruption in his routine, if it made her happy. For her, he would manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few years ago, my brother taught me to play Go. I still suck at it, but it's a beautiful game. I like the idea of Blanc and Marta bonding over it.
> 
> Also, this is the inspiration for Marta’s dress: https://www.neimanmarcus.com/p/monique-lhuillier-sequin-lace-halter-gown-prod148270165
> 
> I want it.
> 
> I plan on this being a three-part story. The next part should be up fairly soon. Thanks for reading!


	2. Ko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments! This next part came out waaaay longer than I intended, but I couldn't bring myself to chop it up, so here it is in its entirety.

"A masterpiece of a game can be ruined by insensitivity to the feelings of an adversary." — Yasunari Kawabata

Blanc was in too deep.

Without realizing quite what was happening or pausing to consider all the ramifications, he had defied his usual custom of maintaining a professional distance from all individuals concerned in his past cases and had continued to associate with Marta Cabrera. At first it had merely been a friendly gesture; it was obvious that she was lonely, and he was mature enough to admit that he was, as well. He also felt a degree of protectiveness toward the young woman, and the thought of her alone in the dark, eerie mansion she had inherited from her former patient, with no one but the staff to keep her company, did not sit well with him. If he could relieve her of a few hours' solitary brooding every now and then, he was happy to do so.

Somewhere along the way, though, "every now and then" had grown more and more frequent. Roughly every other week, Blanc found himself making the half-hour drive from Boston to the house on the outskirts of Wellesley, or receiving Marta in his Beacon Hill townhouse. It usually fell on a Saturday, and usually consisted of a leisurely meal and a few games of Go. Blanc had become quite a skilled player over the last few months, but he still had not managed to beat Marta. She seemed to be able to predict what he was going to do even before he did, so much so that he sometimes wondered if she could read his mind.

Normally, Blanc would despise being so transparent. But with Marta, it was different. He found it strangely comforting, to have someone who knew him so well.

The more time he spent with her, the more he grew to admire her heart of gold, her will of iron, and — bless her — her stomach made of papier-mâché. Not only had she expedited her mother's case and managed to obtain her permanent residence card in fewer than ninety days, she had also proven her mettle with her handling of Harlan Thrombey's fortune, including his publishing company. Unlike his son Walt, who had constantly pressured him to allow his books to be adapted for film and television, Marta respected the late writer's wishes and refused to sell the rights to his works. Instead, she had authorized the production of a series of complete, unabridged audiobooks narrated by several A-list actors, and they were proving to be wildly popular. As a result, more and more people were becoming fans of Harlan's mysteries. Blanc liked to think that the man would have been proud of the way she had taken the reins.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, despite her ill treatment at their hands, Marta had not completely turned her back on the Thrombeys. She continued to pay for young Meg Thrombey's college tuition, on the condition that her mother Joni was not to be permitted to touch the funds. She also kept Walt on retainer as a consultant for the publishing business, which allowed him to pay off the debtors scratching at his door — although there was no question of who was in charge. And she had found an excellent assisted living facility for Harlan's impossibly elderly mother, where she received the best of care. She even paid the estimable old lady regular visits.

Blanc was not surprised by these acts of kindness and generosity. They were characteristic of the person who had committed them. It was simply Marta being Marta.

For his part, with the possible exception of Great-Nana Wanetta Thrombey, he would not have minded if he never saw any of those people ever again. Their conduct still bothered him more than he cared to admit. They had claimed to love her like family, while treating her like a servant and consistently disrespecting her with their casual racism. And when they had learned of the change in Harlan's will, how quickly they had turned on her. They were jackals, the whole lot of them. As far as he was concerned, they deserved their fate. Fortunately for them, it was not up to him.

It also bothered him that Marta had such a flimsy support system. Her mother was in Cuba with her other relatives. Apart from her sister, she had no one to rely on. And even Alice had her own life, her own demands on her time. Marta insisted that she didn't mind, that she was accustomed to being self-sufficient, and no doubt she meant it. But she deserved so much better. She deserved to have someone at her back.

And so, Blanc had taken it upon himself to be that someone.

Part of him questioned the wisdom of this decision. He was well aware that it went firmly against his rule to keep his past cases in the past. He was also aware that his association with a wealthy woman nearly twenty years his junior was seen as unusual, even improper to onlookers. But for now, he couldn't seem to bring himself to care. It was all perfectly harmless, after all. They were just friends.

At least, that was what Blanc told himself until he learned of her upcoming birthday.

Alice had been the one to tell him. She seemed to find his friendship with her sister immensely entertaining, and never resisted an opportunity to tease him about it. She also had a nickname for him that he would have found slightly irritating if she hadn't assured him that it was meant with affection.

He was in the office of his townhouse, filing away the details of a blackmail case he had just resolved, when his phone buzzed, startling him. Plucking it from his desk, he saw that he had a single text from Alice, which read:

_Hope you don't have any plans for May 23. It's Marta's birthday. Our mom is coming up from Matanzas. The party is at 4:00 at the haunted mansion. Don't be late._

Blanc stared at the screen for a long moment. Marta's birthday. How old would she be? Thirty-two? Good God, he felt ancient. In his defense, the age difference did not seem so great when they were together. Out of necessity, Marta had been forced to grow up very quickly, and was wise and mature beyond her years.

He consulted his desk calendar. The twenty-third of May was less than two weeks away. Sighing, he typed out a response:

_Understood. Shall I bring anything?_

Within seconds, Alice's reply came.

_Just your appetite. Mom always cooks enough to feed a pack of starving hyenas._

He huffed a soft, noiseless chuckle; Alice certainly had a colorful way with words. As he was composing his answer, another text came in quick succession:

_Also, if you wanted to get Marta a present, that would be nice._

Blanc smiled.

_Of course. Thank you for informing me, Alice._

Her message, when it came, made him snort:

_No problem, Sherlock._

Setting down his phone, Blanc removed his tortoiseshell reading glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He could only imagine how out of place he, as a middle-aged Southern white male, would be in a house full of Marta's friends and relations. But if he missed her birthday party simply because the thought made him uncomfortable, it would make him a cad. And Benoit Blanc, whatever else he might be, was nothing if not a consummate gentleman.

 _If you wanted to get Marta a present._ Well, that was all fine and dandy, but what could he possibly give a woman who already had the funds to buy damn near anything she could ever want? Not that Marta's tastes were extravagant, by any means. Although it was true that she looked a bit more polished these days, she did not drive a luxury car or swan about in expensive designer clothes, like a certain family she used to work for. In fact, she tended to prefer comfort and practicality over flashiness, substance over style. Yet another thing to admire her for.

He knew one thing for certain: she loved reading. It seemed like every time he turned around, he was catching her with her nose buried in a book, either one of Harlan's or something from the extensive collection in his — or rather, _her_ — library. Once or twice, Blanc had even had to chastise her for reading in the middle of one of their Go games. A man could endure only so much humiliation.

It may have been trite and unoriginal, but a book was definitely a safe bet. But what sort of book? She was fond of the classics, he knew. She was less fond of postmodern literature. She had informed him once that she'd tried to read _Gravity's Rainbow_ by Thomas Pynchon, but had found it so incredibly tortuous and convoluted that she hadn't made it past the first hundred pages. It had more characters, she said, than a _telenovela_.

He glanced out the window. It was a pleasant day. He knew there was a large seller of rare and antique books just on the other side of Boston Common. Surely he would be able to find something there.

With a sigh of defeat, Blanc stood and shrugged on his jacket.

He spent some considerable time in that bookshop, perusing the shelves for something appropriate. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to jump out at him. All of the titles he thought might interest Marta were already in her library. He contemplated buying her a handsome leatherbound journal, but that felt impersonal, lazy. He was certain he could do better than that.

Irritated, Blanc stepped out of the dark shop and paused on the sidewalk, blinking in the afternoon sun. As he stood there, he happened to glance in the window of an antique shop across the street. Abruptly, all the air rushed out of his lungs.

As if on autopilot, he crossed the street and came to a halt in front of the shop window, staring. On the other side of the glass sat an exquisite Go board, or _goban_. It was a massive block of solid, lacquered wood, a little over a foot tall, with carved feet. The sides were black, and covered with gold paintings of trees and flowers and cranes. Beside it was a set of matching wooden _gosu_ bowls, which contained the black and white stones. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

No. Absolutely not.

Somehow, Blanc found himself inside the antique store. He made his way to the desk, where a thin, wizened shopkeeper sat leafing through a newspaper.

The man looked up and smiled. "Good afternoon, sir," he said. "How may I help you?"

What in the name of all that was holy was he doing? "What can you tell me about that _goban_ in the window?" he asked.

The shopkeeper followed his gaze. "Ah, yes," he said, moving from behind the desk and motioning for Blanc to follow him. "Lovely, isn't it? Nineteenth century. It came here all the way from Osaka. It's made from a single piece of kaya wood, and the design on the sides is known as _maki-e_ , which is a technique using gold powder brushed on top of lacquer.

"The stones," he went on, picking up one of the lacquered bowls and removing the lid, "are made of slate and _hyuga_ clamshell, and they are the original pieces that came with the board."

"Magnificent," said Blanc.

The man beamed, obviously heartened by his interest. "Are you a Go enthusiast yourself, sir?"

He shook his head. "Oh, no, I'm mediocre, at best," he replied sheepishly. "But I have a dear friend who is an accomplished player."

The shopkeeper didn't miss a beat. "Well, then, this would make a perfect gift for your friend."

 _God help me, I do believe it would,_ Blanc thought to himself. This was not a casual gift, like a book or a set of nice stemware. This was a major purchase. The price, which was scrawled on a tag and attached to one of the board's feet, was irresponsible by anyone's definition of the word. There was no telling what Marta's reaction would be to receiving something like this. The woman wouldn't even let him pay for takeout.

And yet, she _deserved_ this. For all the time she spent in that house full of disquieting artefacts from a life that had been tragically snuffed out, she deserved to have something beautiful. And because she would never indulge in anything for herself, he had to be the one to do it.

"Would it be possible to have this gift-wrapped?"

Oh, yes. He was definitely in too deep.

On the afternoon of the party, he took his car up the winding, wooded road which led to Two Deerborn Drive. He eased slowly through the gate, waving to the security guard as he went. It was a glorious day, and the grounds of the Thrombey estate — or, rather, the Cabrera estate — were still in full bloom. As he drove up the long driveway, he passed peonies and daylilies and bearded irises bursting with color. It was a welcome change, after such a cold, dreary winter.

He parked between Marta's Toyota Highlander and a little hatchback he recognized as Alice's. As he climbed out of his vehicle, the front door of the mansion swung open, and Marta stepped out onto the porch. She was dressed in a linen house dress of a slightly old-fashioned cut, complete with belt and pockets. She looked like something out of a film from the 'forties. He was amused to see that she was also wearing white sneakers.

"Good afternoon," he called as she descended the steps to meet him, "is the lady of the house in?"

"Blanc," she said with a grin, standing on her toes and hugging him tightly. "It's been too long."

"Indeed it has," he agreed, rubbing her back absently. He had recently been tied up with a succession of cases which had taken up most of his time, and all of his mental energy. Quite frankly, he was exhausted, but he would not have missed this day for anything.

After a moment, she stepped back, and he let his arms fall to his sides. "You're not driving back to Boston tonight," she said. It was not a question, but a statement. "Don't even try to argue. Alice and I got a room all ready for you, and the windows face west, so the sun won't wake you in the morning. You can sleep as late as you want."

Blanc chuckled dryly. "Do I look like I need it that badly?" he joked.

Marta smiled. "I know you must be tired. It was good of you to come."

"Of course," he murmured. "Happy Birthday, Marta."

He popped the trunk of his car and retrieved her wrapped present, being careful not to let the stones inside rattle together. It was ridiculously heavy, and he knew his back would not thank him for it. As Marta's gaze fell on it, her eyes grew comically wide.

"What the hell is _that?_ " she asked.

"All in good time, _chérie_ ," he replied, heaving it up the front steps and into the house. "My, my, my, what is that mouth-watering aroma?"

"Mom is in the kitchen preparing a feast. _Ropa vieja_ with black beans and rice. Oh, and fried plantains."

"A woman after my own heart," he remarked, looking for a place to set down the package. "And your sister?"

"Keeping her boyfriend _out_ of the kitchen."

"I see." He didn't see, but he could guess. Never in his life had he met anyone who could eat like Alice's boyfriend. And he was such a scrawny thing. It was hard to imagine where he put it all.

"Blanc, let me help you with that," Marta offered, attempting to take the object from his arms. He shooed her away, earning an exasperated sigh from her. "Fine, then at least come into the library. You can put it down in there."

He followed her obediently into the cluttered two-storey library. Truth be told, this was not Blanc's favorite room in the house. To him, it was the room in which he had watched, paralyzed, as Ransom Drysdale had attempted to stab Marta through the heart. The fact that it was a prop knife did little to comfort him; he would always reproach himself bitterly for underestimating the bloodlust of that spoiled psychopath.

At least Marta had gotten rid of that macabre knife sculpture of Harlan's. Thank heaven for small mercies.

"You really didn't have to get me a present, Benoit," Marta told him as he placed her gift on the big oak desk, next to a small collection of similarly wrapped packages. "It's pretty obvious that I don't need anything."

Blanc ignored the warm feeling that spread through his chest at her use of his given name. "Now that is pure, unmitigated hooey," he said lightly. "Someone's got to spoil you, after all. God knows it's never going to be you."

A blush stole over her face. She looked as if she was about to say something, but at that moment Blanc heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see Alice in the doorway, a big, mischievous grin on her face. "What's up, Sherlock?"

His lips twitched, threatening to betray him with a smile. "Alice," he greeted her with a very solemn nod. "A delight, as always."

"Oh, boy. Who is this guy?" She rolled her eyes, but her own grin didn't fade. "Come on. Mom wanted to know the minute you got here. She hasn't seen you since the asshole's trial."

They made their way to the kitchen, where Marta and Alice's mother was preparing a meal for what looked like several hundred people. She greeted him warmly, addressing him as "Benito" and thanking him for looking after her stubborn, independent daughter in her absence. Alice's boyfriend Luke was not quite as effusive, but no less friendly. As he and Alice asked Blanc about his latest case, Mrs. Cabrera force-fed him guava-filled pastries while Marta silently poured him a drink, hiding a smile. Whoever said Southern hospitality was the best in the world had never been entertained by three Latina women.

As Luke told him about his work as an EMT, Blanc stole a glance at Marta, who was attempting to assist her mother with little success. She seemed more relaxed, more content than he had seen her in some time. He only wished she could be that way more often.

Other guests began to trickle in, most of whom were Marta's old acquaintances from nursing school. The old security guard, Mr. Proofroc, came up to the mansion to wish his employer a happy birthday. To Blanc's surprise, even Meg Thrombey stopped by briefly to drop off a gift. She did not stay long, however; no doubt she felt out of place in a house that no longer belonged to her family. More than once, Blanc caught her looking at him with a strange expression.

After a delicious dinner of Cuban cuisine and a truly sinful _tres leches_ cake, Marta was dragged reluctantly into the library to open her presents. She was pushed into an old, battered armchair, and Alice proceeded to hand her packages while the other guests watched. As she unwrapped books and handmade scarves and humorous patterned socks, Blanc found himself growing increasingly uneasy. What had he been thinking when he'd purchased that Go board? More importantly, what would Marta think? The thing was beyond overkill. But it was far too late to take it back now. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Damn, he wished he hadn't thought of that.

His heart in his mouth, he watched as Alice attempted to retrieve his gift from the desk and swore in Spanish. "What the hell is in here, Blanc? Pirate treasure? An anvil?"

"Allow me," he said, quickly standing and assisting her to place the box on the floor.

Eyeing him suspiciously through narrowed lids, Marta knelt on the floor, tore off the wrapping paper, and pulled back the box's flaps. And then she gave a gasp that caught in her throat.

"Benoit," she breathed.

Kneeling beside her, he lifted the _goban_ from the box and set it in front of her, placing the _gosu_ bowls on top. For what seemed like an eternity, she simply stared at it, her lips slightly parted. And then, slowly, she ran her fingers over the smooth, varnished surface of the board, tracing the intersecting lines. Then she picked up one of the bowls and removed its lid. She took out one of the white clamshell stones, held it to the light for a long moment, and then carefully replaced it.

"What is that thing?" someone asked.

"It's a Go board," said Alice. "That old game with the black and white stones. It's Marta's favorite."

" _Que bonito_ ," their mother murmured.

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," whispered Marta, her eyes still on the board.

Blanc exhaled slowly in relief. "I'm glad you like it," he replied quietly. "I was worried it might be a tad excessive—"

Without warning, she threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking him backward onto the rug. With an awkward chuckle, he patted her on the back, acutely aware that every last pair of eyes in the room was on them. But she didn't seem to care. She held on to him for dear life, her face pressed firmly against the side of his neck. Blanc had the sudden urge to close his eyes and block out the rest of the world. Somehow, he resisted.

"I love it," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you so much."

He felt himself smile. "You are most welcome."

At length Marta released him, and he discreetly took his place in a quiet corner of the room while she opened the rest of her gifts. But every now and then she caught his gaze and held it with hers, a tender, affectionate light in her eyes. During those moments, he found himself forgetting to breathe.

Eventually the party began to wind down, and one by one the guests went home. Luke and Alice promised to return in the morning and take them out to breakfast, before each giving Marta a bone-crushing hug. Thankfully, they were less demonstrative when wishing Blanc a good night.

Shortly after they left, Mrs. Cabrera announced that she was going upstairs to bed. "Good night, you two," she said, kissing Marta on the cheek. "Don't stay up too late playing that silly game."

"Yes, ma'am," Blanc answered dutifully.

She patted the top of his head, much to his amusement. "You see?" she said, giving her daughter a pointed look. " _He_ listens to me."

Marta simply smiled. "Sleep tight, Mama."

Her mother muttered something about being lucky if she could sleep at all in this " _casa espeluznante_ " and shuffled upstairs. As soon as she had disappeared from sight, Marta turned to Blanc.

"Okay," she said. "We need to talk."

With some trepidation, he followed her into the library, where she stood beside her new Go board and folded her arms over her chest. In spite of her earlier declaration, she didn't speak.

"...Yes?" Blanc asked tentatively.

She exhaled noisily. "Blanc," she said. "What's the big idea, giving me this... this _amazing_..." She seemed to be struggling with some strong emotion. "It's absolutely beautiful, and I love it more than I can say. But it's... it's too much. How can I accept this?"

Blanc suppressed a sigh. As pleased as he'd been by her first reaction to his gift, he could have seen this coming. For all her wonderful qualities, Marta Cabrera was physically incapable of recognizing her own worth. He suspected it was the result of spending so many years of her life trying to prove herself to people who imagined they were better than her — one family, in particular. Damned narcissistic Thrombeys.

"I can assure you," he said, choosing his words carefully, "that there was no 'big idea' in mind. I merely happened to see the Go board in a shop window, and I thought of you. And of course you can accept it, dear girl. It is your birthday, after all."

"But it must have cost a fortune," Marta protested.

He arched a wry eyebrow. "I may not be as obscenely wealthy as you are, but I am far from destitute. I promise you, I can afford to splurge on a friend every once in a while."

She opened her mouth, no doubt in preparation of voicing another objection, but he stopped her with a look. "Marta," he continued more gently, stepping closer to her, "look around you. You're surrounded, day in and day out, by someone else's belongings. You deserve to have something that is solely, entirely _yours_. By God, you've earned it." He gave her a soft, pleading smile. "Will you please accept it in the spirit of affection and respect with which it was given?"

Marta stared up at him for a long moment, her expression hovering between fondness and frustration. And then she covered the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his shirt. "I don't mean to be ungrateful."

This time Blanc allowed his eyes to slip shut as he memorized the sensation of her warm, slim body against his. "Think nothing of it, _chérie_ ," he replied, his voice slightly rough.

At what point did a hug become an embrace? Blanc wasn't certain, but he had a feeling that the difference had to do with one's level of awareness of another human being — of how acutely one felt another pair of hands on one's back, another person's breath on one's skin. He also had a feeling it had something to do with hair, and his fingers had begun stroking Marta's of their own volition. How on earth had that happened?

Clearing his throat, he gently extricated himself and stepped back. "Now, enough of these maudlin theatrics," he said with an air of forced levity. "Are we going to play, or aren't we?"

Marta smiled up at him, her eyes shining with an impish light. "I don't know," she answered doubtfully. "It's getting kind of late. Are you sure you can handle total annihilation at this time of night?"

Blanc regarded her with feigned surprise. "Why, Marta Cabrera, are you threatening me?"

She laughed and squeezed his forearm, and his first thought was, _Oh, Lord, I'm in trouble._

"Don't worry, Blanc. I'm a lousy murderer."

Despite her assurances, Marta rarely pulled her punches, and tonight was no exception; she bested him easily in their first game, and the second wasn't going well at all. He had been studying his _jōsekis_ , but it didn't seem to be helping. As he sat on the floor across the board from her in his socks and shirtsleeves, he watched her watching him as he contemplated his next move. Finally, he placed one of his black stones on the board.

"Hmm," she murmured, propping her chin on her hand. "The three-four _jōseki_. _Komoku_. Very predictable."

Blanc's eyebrows shot up. "Now listen, missy," he began indignantly.

"There's nothing wrong with it," she said with a laugh, setting down a white stone. "Harlan won many games with that _jōseki_ _._ "

"Well, if it was good enough for Harlan Thrombey..." He put down another stone, and she immediately responded by taking three more of his. "Damn."

Marta frowned. "What's the matter, Blanc?" she asked curiously. "Your head's not in the game tonight."

"No, I suppose it isn't," he admitted, partly to himself. He couldn't seem to concentrate. And he couldn't stop stealing glances at his opponent. He had always been fond of Marta, but he always told himself that it was nothing but a benevolent interest in her well-being and success. However, something had changed in him, the moment he had seen that Go board. He was reminded of a magnet being moved under a pile of iron filings. He was being irresistibly drawn toward something. Toward her.

This was not good.

"Anything wrong?"

He mustered a smile. "Not at all," he assured her. "Put it down to personal weariness and the late hour."

"We can pick this up in the morning if you want," she offered.

"Perish the thought," he said adamantly. "I intend to put you in your place."

Marta shot him a smirk. "You're all talk, Detective. It's your move."

Taking a deep breath, Blanc tried his best to focus on the board. This was unacceptable, unworthy of him. Marta was a very dear friend who trusted him. Not to mention, he was old enough to be her father. If she knew what he was thinking, she would no doubt be appalled. The only thing for it was to put these ludicrous notions out of his mind.

As he studied the board, he found a weakness in the territory Marta had built and decided to exploit it, taking one of her stones.

"You can't do that," she said immediately.

"I think you'll find I just did," he drawled.

"Yes, but you put our pieces in _ko_."

He blinked. " _Ko_?" he repeated.

She gave a long-suffering sigh. "We've talked about this. It's a forbidden move. A stone can't be played in such a way that it makes the board look exactly the same as it did at the end of the last move. Here, look." She set down one of her white stones and took the black one he had just placed. "I put down my stone and take one of yours, then you put yours down and take mine. So I take yours, then you take mine again. On and on it goes, in theory until the end of time."

Blanc hummed. "So essentially, we are stuck in limbo."

"Exactly."

"How do we get out of it?" he asked.

"One of us has to make a move."

He looked up at her sharply. It was difficult to tell in the dim light of the library, but it almost looked as if her cheeks had taken on a reddened tint. And she seemed to be steadfastly avoiding his gaze.

Wait.

Wait a minute.

Were they still talking about Go?

"And how would we go about doing that?" he asked, failing entirely to sound nonchalant.

He saw her swallow. "Well," she said slowly, her eyes still on the board, "one of us has to force the other into action. To make a _sente_ move. A move that compels the other to respond, abandoning their current course."

Blanc felt his own face grow warm. His fingers itched to loosen his shirt collar. "I see." His voice, low and hoarse, was almost unrecognizable even to himself. "And what would a... _sente_ move look like?"

Marta's tongue darted out to moisten her lips, and he felt a shiver go through him. "I..." She cleared her throat, appearing to collect herself. "I could go here."

And just as quickly as it had started, the moment was over. The strangely tense atmosphere dissipated, leaving him to wonder if he had just imagined it. Marta set down a white stone, putting several of Blanc's black ones in jeopardy. Leaving him with no recourse but to defend his territory, giving her the advantage.

"Very clever," he murmured.

She shrugged. "I've been playing longer, that's all."

Blanc shook his head. "Don't sell yourself short, Marta. You are..." He smiled in genuine admiration. "A formidable opponent."

They kept playing, until eventually there were no more possible moves. They each counted up their territory, and again Marta won — she always did, the little devil — but this time it was much closer. Blanc felt vindicated, if only slightly.

"One more game?" she suggested as they cleared the pieces from the board.

He huffed a soft laugh. "I'd love to, but as they say in the locality of my birthplace, I'm afraid I am plum tuckered out. Think I'll head on up to bed, if it's all right with you."

"Of course. Let me show you where you'll be staying."

She led him up the stairs to the second floor, to the room at the end of the hall. To the best of his recollection, it was the room Joni and Meg had used when they stayed in the house. It was open and tidy and considerably less cluttered than the rest of the mansion, a fact which did not go unappreciated by him.

"The sheets are clean," Marta informed him. "And I left some fresh towels on the vanity. The bathroom is down the hall."

"That's mighty kind of you," he replied. "Thank you, Marta."

She nodded. "No problem."

There was a silence, during which they both stood very still, gazing at each other. Privately, Blanc prayed that she would not hug him again, because he was not at all sure if he trusted himself to let her go this time. But she merely stepped out into the hallway.

"Good night," she said softly.

He smiled. "Good night."

She pulled the door shut behind her, and Blanc let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion. Dear, sweet baby Jesus, this was getting out of hand.

Mechanically, he began to undress, removing his tie and suspenders and hanging them over the back of a chair. As he pulled his Oxford shirt from his trousers and shrugged out of it, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror above the vanity. By God, he looked old. The silver in his hair and the lines around his eyes mocked him mercilessly. Who the hell did he think he was? The time for wooing beautiful young women was over for him; not that he had ever been a Lothario, by any means. That ship had long sailed. He should be thanking his lucky stars that a woman like Marta Cabrera even deemed him worthy of her friendship.

He should have been content with that. He was content.

Then why did it feel like they were still in _ko_? Stuck in limbo, waiting for... what?

There was a knock at the door, startling him out of his thoughts. He shook his head and went to the door, pulling it open. Marta stood on the other side, a pile of folded clothing in her arms. Her mouth was slightly open, but she did not speak.

"Yes?" Blanc prompted.

"Uhh..." She blinked, visibly flustered. "Sorry. I meant to give you some pajamas. They belonged to Harlan, but they're clean. They should fit you."

She made no move to give them to him. Bemused, he reached out and took them from her grasp. "Thank you," he said.

Marta nodded, her gaze flicking briefly from his eyes to his chest, and abruptly he remembered he was in his sleeveless undershirt. She had never before seen him in anything but a suit and tie. Was that why she was acting so oddly?

Trying to ignore the sudden rush of absurd male pride that surged through him, he set the pajamas on the bed before turning to her again. "Was there anything else?" he asked evenly.

She shook her head. "No," she replied in a small voice. Then she cleared her throat. "I, I didn't know you had a tattoo."

Surprised by the remark, Blanc glanced at the ink on his right shoulder: a small condor, in the style of the Nazca lines of Peru. "Ah, yes," he said in a wry, self-effacing tone. "The product of a moment of youthful foolishness, many years ago. Most of the time I forget it's even there."

He fell silent, frozen in place, as Marta slowly raised an arm and traced the lines of the tattoo with her fingertips. "I like it," she said softly.

Automatically and without conscious thought, his hand went to her waist, though whether the intent was to push her away or pull her closer, he couldn't say. His heart leapt into his throat as she stepped into his space, her own hands moving to his chest and causing his breath to hitch. Forces stronger than reason drew them closer together, until her body was flush against his. Somehow both his hands found their way around her, feeling her curves through her dress, while her little fingers sank into the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck. If Hell existed, he was definitely going there, because anything that felt this good had to be a mortal sin.

He shivered as her nose lightly grazed his. "Marta," he rumbled, reaching up and brushing her hair out of her face.

"We shouldn't be doing this," she breathed, leaning into his touch.

He nodded against her. With a tremendous effort, he dropped his arms. "I'm glad you agree," he said, hating himself more with every passing second. "It's not that I don't find the prospect incredibly tempting. But you and I..." He gestured futilely between them. "We have something precious here. Our friendship means the world to me, and to jeopardize that would be a grave mistake."

Marta stared up at him, wide-eyed, an unreadable expression on her face. She swallowed hard. "Actually, I... I meant that we shouldn't be doing this, because my mom is in the next room," she said in a low voice.

Blanc grew very still as he realized what she was saying. "Oh," he blurted.

"But you're right," she went on hastily, pressing her palm to her forehead. "You're absolutely right. I would never want to do anything to risk what we have. I don't know what I was thinking. I mean, I _wasn't_ thinking." She shook her head to herself. "It's been a long day. I guess I'm just a little emotional from the party and... everything. A moment of madness, that's all."

She took a deep breath and managed a weak smile. "I'm sorry, Benoit. Let's just forget this ever happened, okay?"

He eyed her carefully, trying to detect any signs of deception. But of course, if she were lying, she would have promptly tossed her cookies by now.

"Yes, of course," he said levelly.

"Good." With a light laugh, she stepped back from the doorway. "Boy, I'm going to feel silly in the morning. Good night. Again."

Blanc watched Marta's small form melt back into the darkness of the hall. "Good night," he murmured.

He closed the door and leaned against it, his eyes tightly shut. Though he was not a violent man, he had a strong urge to punch something, and lamented the conspicuous lack of Thrombeys in the house.

 _This_ was why he kept his past cases in the past. His world had been so simple, so blessedly uncluttered, before he had broken his cardinal rule and allowed himself to be pulled back into Marta Cabrera's life. And although he did not regret it in the slightest, he should have predicted that there would be complications. Such as ridiculous infatuations, to name just one example.

With a sigh, he donned his borrowed pajamas, which were a loud paisley pattern that made him slightly dizzy to look at. He pulled back the sheets, switched off the light, and collapsed on the mattress, looking forward to blissful unconsciousness. And that was when he heard once again the creak of footsteps in the hall outside.

Biting back a curse, Blanc heaved himself upright. It could only be Marta. Hardly daring to wonder what she could want with him now, he moved to the door and opened it cautiously. To his surprise, however, the corridor was empty. As he stood frowning in the doorway, he heard the sound of running water. Someone was using the bathroom.

Relaxing, he started to close the door again. And then he stopped, as he suddenly became aware of another sound, over the rush of water.

It was the sound of someone retching.

"Shit," he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Daniel Craig really does have a condor tattoo on his right shoulder. Yay realism.
> 
> Also, he's hosting SNL tomorrow night, and if there is not a _Knives Out_ sketch, I'm going to riot in the streets. Who's with me?


End file.
